Falling Sands
by slef
Summary: After stumbling around in darkness Sands falls through a subspace anomaly to end up somewhere completely unexpected. Status: Complete.
1. Prologue

**Falling Sands  
By Leoni Venter**

**Prologue**

Sands walked very slowly and carefully, trailing his left hand against the wall. Around him sounds assailed his overloaded senses, disorienting him. Footsteps and voices of people about him on the sidewalk; cars passing both ways down the street - the noise from their engines reflecting from the wall and startling him constantly; leaves rustling... it was all too much.

His head spun with pain and weariness and blood loss. Two days of hiding out with the little boy had not lessened his suffering, if anything, it was worse now that the adrenaline had worn off. During those awful minutes and hours after his eyes had been torn from his skull, only the need for revenge had kept him going. Now he rather wished he was dead. He had no idea why he hadn't died already, except that perhaps some perverse stubbornness kept him clinging to life. For he had nothing to live for. Nothing at all. Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. Central Intelligence Agency. Yeah right.

The Company had disowned him, no doubt about that. He was a kite, after all. If things went south, they cut the string. Plausible deniability. No rescue for Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, who had set it up, and had watched it fall all to pieces. That is, when he still could watch anything at all.

He kept moving forward, feeling his way. He wasn't going anywhere in particular, but since the boy had failed to return to their hideout, Sands had to assume the worst. He couldn't have stayed there, trapped. Now of course he was a blind man in a crowded street and probably sticking out like a sore thumb. Or a sore head, which was more to the point.

No melting into the populace for Sheldon Jeffrey Sands either. Nobody would mistake him for a local. His Spanish was good enough, sure, but he lacked the laid back attitude, if nothing else. It was always better to be a tourist, running the country with his cell phone.

But all that was over now. All that remained was that perverse urge to keep breathing, kicking and most importantly, moving.

A car honked right next to him and Sands jumped almost out of his skin in fright, imagining the impact of metal against his bruised, battered and wounded body. It never came, and he realized after a moment that it hadn't been directed at him after all. Heaving a sigh of relief he resumed his torturous walk.

"Idiot," he told himself. "Concentrate, or they'll scrape you off a bumper before the day is out."

He was therefore aware when something strange started to happen. A rushing, roaring sound of wind suddenly approached from all sides, and there was a strong smell of electricity or ozone in the air. He had time to wonder about tornados and lightning strikes before something sucked him bodily into the air, spinning him around and around. Then everything became perfectly still, leaving him trapped in a senseless limbo. Everything was black, of course.


	2. Chapter 1

**Day 1**

Sands woke with a start. Instinctively he tried to open that which were no longer there. When light and sight failed to materialize, he remembered. No eyes. Oh yes, that.

Well, CIA agents were trained to get as much information from all their senses as possible, so he'd make the most of that training.

First up, ears. They'd been fairly useful to him up to now. A slight humming sound, something that sublimated into a vibration that encompassed his being. Something like the engine of a large vehicle or perhaps a generator of some kind.

Also, a regular beeping sound every few seconds. Not loud, not even irritating. Just there. No sounds of breathing, moving. Alone, then.

Okay, one down, three to go. Smell. Yes, a bit of a chemical, sterile odor in the air. A hospital room?

Touch revealed that he was lying on some kind of bunk or bed, no sheets, no pillow. A little raised platform on the side of the bed. Not very informative.

He wasn't about to try and taste the bed. But he would have loved some _pibil_ and a very large tequila. In hindsight - Hindsight? Who could have known that word would turn out to be so appropriate? - he shouldn't have shot that cook. Who knew where he'd get such a good meal again?

Sands grinned to himself. The point was, of course, that no-one else would get it either. Ah, balance.

A sudden whooshing sound caused him to sit up in alarm. His head exploded with pain at the unexpected movement and he groaned out loud, clapping his hands to his face. No sunglasses, of course. His second groan was because he encountered the gaping holes where his eyes used to be.

"You'd better lie down again," a soft but authoritative feminine voice told him. He heard her approach his bed, footsteps muffled on the floor.

He wanted to refuse just because it was all he could still do to be in control of his life, but some inner bit of common sense spoke up and informed him that it was exceedingly stupid to refuse the help of a doctor at this point in time. Once he felt up to it, he could take whatever steps needed to regain control.

So he sank back onto the bunk. Things improved markedly. "I think you're right," he muttered.

She stopped at the side of the bunk, next to the little platform he'd identified. "Your body has endured considerable trauma. We have patched up the bullet wounds and stopped the infection in the eye sockets, but it will take time for you to fully heal."

She leaned over him to look at his eye socket and Sands tensed. He did not like people touching him. He did not like anyone close. She must have sensed his tension because she drew back. "Relax," she said. "You're safe now."

What was that supposed to mean? "Perhaps if you would be so kind as to explain who you are and where the hell I am, I can determine that for myself," he told her politely.

"I am Dr. Crusher," she said. "What's your name?"

"Sands," he said brusquely. "Where am I?"

"Well," she hesitated. "You're on the Starship Enterprise. We're currently on our way back to the Alpha Quadrant."

What the hell? Was this some kind of sick, sick joke? How could this woman tell him that he was on some fictional spaceship from a TV series?

"I may be blind, bitch, but I'm not a fool," he snapped. "What's the deal here? You're holding me prisoner for the cartels? Or are you with the Company?" He knew it was useless; he would get no straight answers.

She sighed, as if she realized the impossibility of proving any of her statements to him. "I'm telling the truth, Mr. Sands. Sensors picked up a sub-space anomaly and we discovered life signs in it. We transported you aboard."

"Oh really?" Sands asked at his most sarcastic. "And just how did I end up in a sub-space anomaly?"

He could hear her shaking her head. "As near as we can tell, you fell through a plot hole."

That's just peachy, he thought.

"Mr. Sands?"

Sands turned his head towards the source of the voice. A masculine voice, very precise, British accent.

"Captain Picard, I presume."

"Yes, I am," the man said. "How did you know?"

Sands gave an irritated sigh. "I know all about you. Back when I could still enjoy the marvels of television, I did watch Star Trek, you know."

"Star Trek?" The voice was full of sincere confusion. Great actor, even without a script.

"Oh, cut the crap!" Sands said wearily. "You know and I know that this is all bullshit. I just don't see what the point is of telling me this fairytale. What reason does anyone have to fear a man with no eyes?"

Plenty of reason, of course, but he wasn't going to mention that just yet.

He heard the man draw a chair closer and sit down. The cultured voice resumed. "Can we for a moment assume that I do not know what you are talking about?" he asked. "Perhaps if you told me everything that happened I could determine what is going on."

Sands frowned. Why would the Company need to debrief him in such a stupid, roundabout way? Unless it wasn't the Company. Who then? And once again, why the silly Star Trek stuff? It made no sense at all.

"You want to know everything? Okay, I can do that." Sands gathered his thoughts. "My mission was to overthrow the Mexican government while ensuring that cartel badass Barillo and his puppet general Marquez don't take power in the process. To that end I recruited a guitar-slinging gunman, a retired FBI agent and a little chewing-gum selling boy. With me so far?"

He swallowed.

"Then I was betrayed by a federal agent bitch who turned out to be Barillo's daughter, and the cartel bastards drilled my eyes from my head and let me go. We had a wonderful shootout. I killed the bitch, the mariachi killed the cartel boss and his puppet general and the FBI agent killed the doctor who took my eyes. El Presidente is still in power. The chewing-gum boy saved my life before he disappeared. Everybody had a good time. And that's what I did last summer," he concluded. "Any questions?"

A small silence followed his exposition. "One question," the man said at last. "When did this happen?"

"Two days ago," Sands snapped. "November second, the day of the dead. Don't you watch the news?"

"It might be in the archives, Mr. Sands." The voice sounded sad. "But nothing like that has happened in the last two hundred years."

"Ah yes, we're still in Star Trek world," Sands remembered sarcastically. "Why are you keeping this up?"

"I assure you, we are not pretending anything," the man said. "I have no idea what 'Star Trek' is, but you are on the Starship Enterprise..."

"... boldly going where no-one has gone before. Yes, I know," Sands said. "And I suppose you're a bald guy who looks like Patrick Stewart."

"Who?"

"It's no use," Sands sighed. "I can't see, did you notice? There is no way you can prove to my satisfaction that I am on some starship that I happen to know is fictional."

His interrogator sighed. "It would be hard, yes. But what if we could supply you with technology that would restore your sight?"

Restore his sight? Even as his heart leapt at the words, Sands knew it was a pipe dream. But still, why not call the guy's bluff? "What, a silver Alice band like your Lt. La Forge wears?" he asked. "Sure, if you have a spare I'd be much obliged."

"You really do seem to know all about us," the voice mused. "Yes, similar technology. We can procure such an item as soon as we return to the Alpha Quadrant which will be within this week."

Of course the guy doesn't have anything like that, Sands reflected bitterly. Just as he'd expected. But why was he feeling so disappointed?

"Okay," Sands said. "Let me borrow La Forge's Alice band for two minutes. I'll check out the window that we're really in space and then I'll believe you. How's that?"

The feminine voice of 'Dr. Crusher' spoke up and Sands jumped. He'd forgotten that she was there.

"I'm afraid that is impossible," she said. "Lt. La Forge's visor is specially fitted to his optic nerves. The same would have to be done for yours. They are not interchangeable."

"Of course," Sands agreed. "So, I'll deny everything you tell me for a few days? I can do that."

"How about believing us for a few days?" 'Picard' asked. "You can revise your opinion as needed when you have your proof." He sounded amused.

What the hell, Sands thought. Why not? "Let's agree that I'll pretend to believe you and you can pretend that you believe that I believe you," Sands suggested.

"Good. Then we'll assign quarters to you as soon as Dr. Crusher sees fit to release you from Sick Bay," Picard said. "I would also like you to have a talk with Counselor Troy. She's an..."

"... empath," Sands said. "Okay, let's say I believe you. You don't want to subject your empath to me. Friendly warning."

"Nonsense," Picard said. "She can help you." He turned away. "Good day, Mr. Sands." The door whooshed open and Picard's footsteps receded. The door whooshed closed.

"Damn, that's well done," Sands muttered.

"What is?" Crusher asked. Sands jumped again at her voice.

"The sound effects," he snapped. "The bloody sound effects."

This is so nuts, he thought. I'm going to freak right out. Right after I take this nap.

Sands lay grinning to himself like some horror movie skull as he listened to Troy running weeping from Sick Bay. He'd warned them. Not that he believed for one second that the woman really was a Betazoid empath on a starship. But she sure had reacted like one, if he had to be honest. Luckily, he didn't have to be honest. In fact, he had to lie to himself very convincingly to hold onto his sanity. Whatever sanity he had left, of course.

The interview had been short and not very sweet. The door had done its whoosh trick and footsteps had approached. "Mr. Sands, I am Deanna Troy," she introduced herself.

He pictured her in his mind, looking the way she had the last time he'd caught an episode. Dressed in that tight-fitting body suit and looking very sexy. He heard her gasp as she sensed his sudden lustful feelings.

"I'm sorry," he said, not feeling repentant in the least. "I'll keep my eyes off you if it would make you feel more comfortable."

Somehow he could tell that had made her feel worse. He smiled. He was such an evil bastard sometimes. But then, he'd never liked shrinks. Nice to be able to get a little revenge.

He heard her draw a breath to steady herself. "Mr. Sands, I am the ship's counselor. You seem to have experienced some severe trauma, mentally as well as physically, and if you want to talk about it, I can help."

She really believed that, too.

"Listen babe," he told her. "Any connection between your reality and mine is purely coincidental. I doubt that you even realize what it would be like to get inside my head."

He allowed himself for a moment to really feel his rage, hatred, madness and overwhelming fear of the future... felt it and held onto it as the only stabilizing force in his chaotic life. Reveled in the power he drew from it.

That was when she had left. Poor woman. Yes. Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. Still living _la vida loca_. Pity the poor shrink.

Not long after Troy's departure, Sands became aware of an advancing storm. Even before the door had done its whoosh, Sands knew who his next visitor would be. He'd seen the show, after all.

"I sense the approach of an alpha male," he told nobody in particular. "Must be the first officer of the illustrious Enterprise."

His visitor paid no heed to his rambling. He must have been upset for he grabbed Sands by the arms and pulled him upright, shaking him. "What have you done to her? She's crying!" he almost shouted into Sands' face before suddenly noticing the empty gaze. "Oh my." He let Sands go abruptly.

"Not a pretty sight, is it, Commander Riker?" Sands asked gently. "Perhaps the good doctor would give me back my sunglasses so that I can stop horrifying gentle ladies and brave men."

Riker dissolved into incoherent apologies as Sands grinned. The man had been ready to punch him for his callous treatment of the pretty counselor. It could almost be useful, this handicap. What decent man would hit a blind man? Even a blind man as annoying as Sands knew he was turning out to be.

"Come now, Commander," he soothed. "I'm sure you haven't set today aside to humiliate yourself in public."

Riker growled. At least, that's what it sounded like. "You had no right to treat her like that," he snarled.

Sands felt sincerely perplexed. "Like what?" he asked. "I warned the captain not to send her. When she did come, I was completely honest and open about my feelings. Should I rather try to deceive her and everyone about myself?" He shook his head. "I wouldn't do that to my rescuers."

Riker snorted and stormed out.

"I don't think he likes me," Sands said aloud. If he remembered correctly all the comings and goings, the doctor should still be around. "Doctor Crusher," he called. "Do you perhaps have my glasses anywhere? I'm tired of being the local freak show."

"You didn't have any glasses with you when we transported you aboard," she told him. "What kind of glasses would you prefer? I can request a pair from the replicator."

The replicator. But of course.

"Some wraparound Ray-Bans would be just peachy," he said.

He heard her move off to the left, fiddle with something and return half a minute later. "Here."

Thankfully she didn't attempt to place the glasses on his face herself, perhaps sensing that that would earn her a fist in the nose. He held out his hand and she placed them there. He put them on with an indescribable sense of relief.

"Thank you," he said fervently, surprising himself. It was silly, really. He couldn't see what he looked like and what did it matter what other people saw or thought? But there it was. With his injury exposed he felt as naked and vulnerable as the day he was born. That bit of plastic was worth more than a full suit of armor.

She chuckled. "That's the first positive thing I've heard you say."

He'd said that aloud? Losing it, Sheldon old boy. Better watch out. Figuratively speaking, of course.

"Damn," he said. "I must be slipping in my old age. It won't happen again." He meant it, but knew that she thought he was joking. Well, no harm in that. "Tell me, doctor, how long will you keep me here flat on my back?"

"At least until tomorrow," she said. "You can't be in a hurry to alienate the rest of the ship's crew, can you?"

"I've been a bit of a jerk," he admitted. "You can't know how much I hate being in this position."

So much so, that somewhere inside him a voice was screaming. Screaming ever since that drill had descended towards his eye. Screaming all the time. It really was all he could do not to scream out loud.

"Perhaps I can imagine," she said. He heard her reaching out to him.

"Don't," he warned. "Please don't touch me." She drew back. "Thanks. Tomorrow, you said. Any chance that I might get some food before you kick me out?" Might as well put forth the friendly façade. Like she said, it's no good alienating all these people. At least not until he knew what was going on.


	3. Chapter 2

**Day 2**

Whoosh. Sands was becoming thoroughly sick of the sound of that door, but at least it always heralded the start of the next amusing interlude. He wondered who he could annoy this time.

"Mom?" Teenage voice. Oh dear. Wesley. No, no, anybody but Wesley. "Oh, hi. Have you seen my mother?"

Idiot boy. "Have you seen my eyes?"

"No."

"Then I haven't seen your mother." Let him digest that, Sands thought. Five, four, three...

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" Wesley sounded very embarrassed. "The captain said... you lost your eyes in a gunfight?"

Oh great. Spaceship gossip item. "Not in a gunfight. Before the gunfight."

"Then how could you see where to shoot?" Teenage curiosity. Rampant disease. Someone call a doctor.

"Same way I could shoot you right now," Sands said. "Point gun at blabbering mouth. Pull trigger. Works every time."

Small silence. "You don't have a gun."

Oh, brilliant. "You are without a doubt the master of stating the obvious," Sands told him, oozing admiration.

"You're not being very nice, are you?"

Sands gaped at him. There's a laugh. "I'll try to be nicer if you'll try to be smarter," he said with the air of someone offering a bargain.

Wesley laughed. "Okay, I deserved that. My name's Wesley, by the way."

"I know," Sands said. Amazing, the kid had a brain after all. Or at least a sense of humor. The first he'd come across on this so-called ship.

"Here comes my mother," Wesley said. Whoosh. "Hi Mom, you said to meet you here?"

"Yes," she said. "I want you to take Mr. Sands to his quarters on D-deck. Explain the layout, how the replicator works and how he can access the computer, please."

Sands heard her approach his bed. "Mr. Sands, we've mended the clothes you were wearing when we found you, but you might find ship suits like the one you're wearing now more comfortable. You can get new issue from the replicator. You'll need to wear a comm badge. With it, you can contact us if you need help and we can monitor your life signs. Here, take it."

Sands put out his hand and she dropped the little gadget in it. "Just press it to your chest, it will affix itself."

Sands complied. So what if they could track him. He had nowhere to go. There was one little matter, something Wesley had reminded him of. "What happened to my guns?"

"Mr. Worf has them in safe keeping," she replied. "You don't need weapons while on board."

Of course not.

"All right," he said. "Let's give this a try." He sat up and swung his legs to the floor. As that didn't cause too much protestation, he completed the maneuver and stood up next to the bunk. Surprisingly, the wounds in his thighs didn't hurt at all. The stuff Crusher kept spraying into him must've really worked wonders.

"Okay, that's not too bad. My thanks, Doctor. Mr. Crusher, if you'd be so kind." Someone must have taught the kid some manners because he didn't grab Sands by the arm, but instead stepped close and let Sands take his arm. "Wonderful! Let's go."

Wesley turned out to be a good enough guide. At least he never let Sands whack his head on anything. As they walked he kept up a running commentary of the route they were going, somewhat to Sands' irritation. It's not as if he would remember the route. But it was better than walking in an awkward silence.

They stepped into a turbo lift, the kid said. Its door opened and closed with that same familiar whoosh. It gave no feeling of movement at all, sparking Sands' suspicion about the reality of the ship once again. He could so far think exactly how he could mock up the same kind of environment to fool a blind man that he was on a spaceship. He just couldn't think why anyone would.

After what seemed like a very long walk, Wesley finally stopped. "This is it." He did something and a door whooshed open. "Your quarters."

Sands followed him inside. Place looked like nothing at all, he thought mordantly. "Okay, tell me about it."

Wesley explained the layout of the room... bed, desk, facilities. "If you need to change anything in here, just ask the computer," he said. "It responds to voice commands so you don't need the desktop access point. You can also ask the computer to program the replicator to provide anything you need."

"Anything?" Sands asked with a grin.

"Well, anything within reason," Wesley amended. "Normal crew members get replicator rations – it is part of their salary and can be suspended for disciplinary reasons. Because you're a guest you basically can have anything you want, but they'll let you know if you're spending too much."

"That is certainly reasonable," Sands remarked. "Well, I'd better get settled in. Oh, one second. Where are my clothes, the ones that have been mended?"

"Right here on the bed," Wesley answered. "Why is there a picture of a green leaf on your belt buckle?"

Sands laughed. "It's _Cannabis sativa_, boy. Only thing that makes Mexico bearable."

"How so?"

"I think you're too young to be told," Sands said. "Your mother won't forgive me and your captain will have me thrown in the brig for pushing drugs."

"Oh." Wesley got it.

"Well, I think that's it," Sands said. "Thanks for your help."

"Are you sure you'll be okay?"

Mentally, Sands rolled what would have been his eyes. "Sure, I'm sure. Scoot."

Wesley left and Sands stood in the middle of his new room wondering what he was doing there. While he had been in Sick Bay he could look forward to getting out. Now that he was out, what was left? Oh yes, the vague possibility of some techno gadget to restore his sight... in a few days' time. But what to do until then? Twiddle his thumbs? Try to catch the "ship" in a contradiction or a lie? That could prove interesting.

First up, clothes. He wasn't planning on walking around in a Star Trek uniform. For all he knew, he was wearing a red shirt. And it is common knowledge that red shirted people always die in Star Trek. No thank you. Anyway, he liked his black gunfighter costume. Made him look like The Crow. If it made people uncomfortable, so be it.

He put on his own clothes, managing well enough with buttons, zips, laces and buckles. He'd gotten dressed in the dark often enough in his life. Having accomplished that goal, he suddenly couldn't stand the quiet. He wondered if anyone would stop him from wandering around. If only he had a way of knowing where he was.

Might have to try that computer after all. "Computer," he said. A chirp indicated that he had the machine's attention. "Can you direct me to the nearest restaurant?"

"The nearest restaurant is Ten Forward," the computer responded. "Proceed to the turbo lift, request B-deck and then proceed straight on."

That didn't help much. How to find the turbo lift. "I am unable to see," he told the computer, feeling silly. "I need something to indicate direction and distance."

"Processing," the computer said. It even sounded like Majel Barrett. After a few seconds there was a hum from the corner.

"Turn left," the computer instructed. Sands did so. "Walk four steps towards the replicator." Sands carefully walked the four steps and found himself just touching the wall with his hand. He stepped closer and found the replicator outlet. Inside was a piece of cloth. He examined it.

"It is a glove," the computer volunteered. "If you wear it on your left hand, you can request directions from the computer. The glove will indicate distance by a tingling on the length of your middle finger. The closer you are to your destination, the nearer to the end of you finger the tingling will be. Similar sensations on your thumb and little finger will indicate right and left turns."

Sands put the glove on, very impressed. It fit snugly. He just hoped it went well with the rest of his costume. "What color is it?" he asked.

"The glove is black," the computer said. "Based on your choice of wardrobe it was designed not to be conspicuous."

Perfect. "Okay, let's test this thing. Computer, direct me to my door."

Instantly there was a tingling feeling in his little finger. He turned left. A tingle started somewhere near the end of his middle finger. He stepped forward and the tingle moved a bit closer to the end. By the time he'd reached the door, the tingle was right at the very tip of his finger. It really worked. Much better than tapping along with some cane, Sands thought.

"Alright! Computer, direct me to Ten Forward," he instructed. Life could go on, after all.

He arrived at Ten Forward with no serious mishaps. It took some getting used to, concentrating on the glove's stimuli while also listening closely to avoid people in his way. He'd passed people in the hallways but no-one had spoken to him. He paused when the glove indicated that he'd reached his destination. That seemed to be just outside the door of the place, as he could hear the unmistakable sound of a restaurant within. Well, he'd wanted to come here. Better go through with it.

"Computer, direct me to the bar." There had to be a bar, right?

The glove responded and he walked forward. The door slid open and he stepped inside. Still going forward as instructed, he wondered for a moment where the tables and chairs were in relation to him. Then he found them.

As he went down, all conversation in the place died. His fall seemed to happen in slow motion as he tripped over a chair, fell over a table which proceeded to overturn, and finally hit the floor. As he tried to get his breath back, he reflected that there was something to be said for the old cane after all. He considered staying down there. Perhaps everyone would ignore the incident and just forget about him. Some things were too humiliating to even want to get out of. Better stay there and die.

"Let me help you up," a voice said.

He'd not even heard anyone approach. Oh, the voice had been sitting at the table he'd knocked down. Just great. He reached out a hand and was pulled upright. He checked that his glasses were still in place. "I'm sorry," he said.

"It doesn't matter," the voice said. "I have just finished imbibing my daily requirement of lubricant."

Nobody speaks that way, do they? "You must be Data," Sands realized.

"That is correct," the android said. "Can I assist you to the bar? Judging by your trajectory, it was to be your ultimate destination."

"Yes, please," Sands sighed. "This glove is a little unreliable regarding small objects."

As he spoke, Data guided him around some more obstacles and the conversations in the place resumed. Data took him right up to the bar, placed his hand on a barstool and stepped back as he seated himself.

Sands experienced a moment of panic that he'd be left alone. Stupid panic. He'd always been alone. He preferred being alone. He... "Mr. Data, would you please join me?" It just slipped out. Darn.

"Certainly," Data responded. "May I look at the glove you mentioned?" He sat down beside Sands.

Why not? Sands peeled off the glove and put it on the bar. "The computer came up with that."

"A device to indicate distance and direction, as controlled by the computer," Data said. "You are correct; this would not be useful in circumstances where the floor is obstructed with objects not indicated on the floor plans. Until you can procure a visor, I suggest you carry some kind of cane to feel out the way."

Sands mentally revised his earlier statement to Wesley. Data was the master of stating the obvious. But he felt kind of bad about falling through the android's liquid lunch, so he refrained from mentioning it.

"Actually," he said. "I was wondering if you could help me. I need to practice moving around just by ear. Somewhere safe, where I wouldn't be bothering people or damaging stuff."

"The holodeck would be appropriate for that purpose," Data responded. "You can program it to reflect any kind of environment you wish to familiarize yourself with. The inbuilt safety features will prevent you from injuring yourself."

"Yeah, that sounds great," Sands said. Holodecks, now? Perhaps this was real after all. "Can we do that tomorrow? I mean, would you help me?"

"I would gladly help you," Data said. "Holodeck programming is in fact one of my hobbies. I will meet you at your quarters at 0900 tomorrow." He stood up. "I am afraid I have to leave now, I am on duty on the bridge. Your glove is on the bar in front of you."

"Thank you, Mr. Data," Sands said as the android walked away. He'd said 'thank you' more often in the last two days than in any given month before. It could get to be a habit. He just wasn't sure whether it would be a good or a bad habit to have.

"Are you alright?" a low, slow voice asked from opposite the bar. Sands identified Guinan, as played by Whoopi Goldberg.

"Yes, I'm fine," he replied. "Sorry for upsetting the atmosphere."

She chuckled. "I've had brawls in here. One table is nothing. So what can I get you?"

"I don't suppose you have Mexican food in this dive," Sands said. "I'm dying for a good plate of _peurco pibil_ and a tequila with lime."

"Let me check," she said. "And mister, I object to my place being referred to as a dive." After a moment she made a sound of surprise. "Well, you're in luck. _Peurco pibil_ is on file."

"What do you mean, on file? Do you have the recipe?" Having the recipe of course was great, but it needed hours and hours of preparation time and almost four hours of cooking, and he was hungry now.

"I mean, we have the replicator pattern stored. I can get you a plate in about 2 minutes."

Sands suddenly wasn't so sure. "You mean it's going to be assembled from stray atoms? It couldn't possibly be any good. The real thing needs careful and slow cooking."

She sighed. "What you taste when you eat is just a collection of chemicals. The replicator will give you the exact composition of the original dish. And keep in mind that these patterns are recorded from only the very best dishes."

"Oh all right," he capitulated. "I'll give it a try."

Two minutes later he was eating by far the best _pibil_ he'd ever come across. It was hot and spicy, but not overly so. The exotic taste of the _achiote_ spices complimented the sweet-sour taste of the tender pork perfectly.

"This is great," he told Guinan. "You should try some." Half his life he'd been sharing _pibil_ with acquaintances. "I wonder who the chef is, the one that made the original dish?"

"Whoever he was," she said. "He's long dead."

Sands almost giggled into his plate. Very appropriate, considering his history with pibil and cooks.

Finishing his meal, he pushed the plate away. "Tell me, Guinan. If they can record the exact pattern of some obscure dish, and keep it on file here, why don't they have the pattern for a visor on file as well?"

"I really can't say," she said.

"Or why can't they just record La Forge's visor pattern and replicate one for me?"

"I'm just the bartender," she told him. "But perhaps your visor would have to be different. Geordi does have eyes, you know. You don't."

Oh. Such tact. But she might have a point there. "I guess so," he sighed. "Well, don't let me keep you," he said brightly. "I'll just sit here and soak in the ambience."

"As you wish," she said and moved away.

He spent hours there, sitting and listening, very much ignored by the people coming and going. His reputation must have spread, which was good for his ego. He reflected that he must have some sick mind to be proud of the fact that nobody liked him.

Guinan finally threw him out when she closed Ten Forward, and he made his way back to his quarters using the computer's directions. Once there he instructed the computer to raise the room temperature a bit and to wake him up at 0800 the next day. After that he dumped himself on the bed and slept.


	4. Chapter 3

**Day 3**

Data collected him the next morning and took him to a holodeck, where he spent much of the morning maneuvering through soundscapes. He requested city streets, uneven ground, empty warehouses, plush restaurants and anything else he could think of. Using only a cane and his ears, he taught himself the basics of echo location. He noted the effect that carpets and wall hangings had on the acoustics of a room. He learned to judge distance by the sound of his footsteps reflecting off surfaces, and paced himself to walk accurately and surely around obstacles.

More than anything, the holodeck convinced him of the reality of his situation. There was no way anyone could fake everything he asked for instantly. Crazy as it might sound, he had in truth somehow been transported into a universe where Star Trek was real. The ship was real, the people were real, and therefore, the hope of seeing again was real as well.

It was a very strange feeling. Hope.

"I am curious," Data said. "Why do you feel you need this practice? By tomorrow we will pass by Star Base 3 and you will get your visor. Surely this is unnecessary?"

Well, hope was one thing. Glowing optimism was another thing altogether. "Two reasons," Sands said. "First of all, I'll only believe that visor thing works when it does. And secondly, when the batteries run out, I want to be prepared."

"The visor operates on a power pack that will last longer than your expected lifetime," Data informed him.

That's useful. "I meant, if for some reason I don't have the visor with me," Sands tried to clarify.

"Why would you leave it behind?"

Sands felt like kicking the android. "If someone should take it from me, metal brain."

"Metal brain is not entirely accurate," Data told him helpfully. "My main processing unit consists of a sponge-like material in which artificial neurons are embedded."

This time Sands did kick him. And hurt his toe.

"I am built to withstand impacts of up to one metric ton in pressure," Data informed him. "I would advise you to be careful as you might injure yourself."

It's useless. Completely useless to try and get the android to understand him. "I'm visualizing the duct tape over your mouth," Sands told him, more to soothe his own extreme frustration than anything. He should have known what the response would be.

"Placing an adhesive strip over my mouth would not interfere with my speech capabilities," Data said.

"I didn't think so," Sands sighed. "Thank you, Mr. Data, for your help. I don't want to keep you from your duties."

Data left, probably very confused over this encounter with a member of humanity. Sands couldn't help that. The android had been very helpful, but it was a sore trial to have a conversation with him.

Sands returned to the holodeck and requested a scenario where unlimited numbers of attackers tried to sneak up on him. He spent the rest of the day shooting everything that moved.

"What will you do when you can see again, Mr. Sands?"

The question startled Sands, who'd been sitting wrapped in his usual solitude in Ten Forward.

"Ah, Captain," he greeted. "I don't really know." He shook his head. "I'm becoming convinced that you're the real thing, but that opens up a whole universe of confusion for me."

"Why is that?" Picard asked.

"Where I come from, this doesn't exist," Sands started. "You, the ship, the crew... all of it is fictional. And yet, here I am. So I have two choices. I can believe the impossible, and see again, or I can disbelieve it in which case I must have lost my mind somewhere along the line."

Picard considered that for a moment. "I can only comment on my own reality. It seems impossible to me that there could be a place where we are fictional. My choices are very much the same as yours."

Oh sure. You don't have to face life without eyes. "It's not that simple, Captain. Even if I stick to your reality, it still leaves me stranded in some future time in a universe I know nothing about. If you drop me off on Earth, I will have no purpose there. And if I stay on the ship..."

"In what capacity would you stay?"

"Exactly. And to be honest, you don't want me on your ship any longer than is absolutely necessary." Might as well warn the guy.

"Would you care to explain that, Mr. Sands? I am aware that you have not made any friends amongst the crew."

"I am what you might call a destabilizing force in the universe," Sands said. "I worked for the CIA; do you know what that is?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I push buttons, I pull strings, and I throw up shapes. I set them up and watch them fall." He actually liked saying his litany out loud for a change. "Manipulating people is my specialty, and I seem to do that even when it isn't appropriate. I'm a dangerous man to have aboard, Captain."

"I see." Picard cleared his throat. "Mr. Sands, you are surprisingly forthright about this. Wouldn't it be to your advantage to hide this facet of your personality?"

"I've been told that I am too honest," Sands said. That's painfully true. "Probably accounts for my sorry state now." So honest about himself that he couldn't even comprehend other people not being the same. Stupid, stupid error. Caught for a sucker in his own game.

"I think you're a fake, Mr. Sands." Picard stood up. "And I'm sure we'll find something for you to do."

"You have no idea what you're saying," Sands said. How many innocent people had he killed? Just to prove a point? On anyone's scale of decency, he'd be so far off the bottom that they'd have to excavate to find him. On the way down they'd find a lot of skeletons, too. "Ask your empath what my mind is like."

"I did," Picard said. "She said you are filled with remorse and sadness so terrifying that you're doing everything in your power to convince yourself it is not there."

What in hell? No way, not ever. He didn't care about what he'd done. Not in the least. And what he would do in future filled him with a secret sense of glee. Or did it? Suddenly face to face with himself in a way he'd never expected to be, Sands could only sit there, speechless, as Picard wished him a good evening and walked away.


	5. Chapter 4

**Day 4**

After not sleeping much at all, Sands started the next day with another session in the holodeck. As if the intense concentration could exile the demons in his mind, he 'killed' dozens of attackers, wondering at times why he felt no sense of accomplishment about it. And then suddenly he couldn't stand it any longer. He halted the program. Standing in utter silence, he could hear the screaming in his head very clearly. Losing it, losing it, losing it.

Damn Picard.

Even virtual bloodshed suddenly made him feel sick. He couldn't even remember when last he'd felt anything at all when killing a person. What was happening to him? Why did the solid ground under his feet make way for quicksand? Where could he go from here?

His comm badge chirped. "Mr. Sands, would you please come to Sick Bay?" Dr. Crusher. No doubt calling about the visor.

"I'm coming," he responded. Part of him felt that perhaps he deserved to be blind. Perhaps he shouldn't have the visor at all. But what else was he to do? He left the holodeck and with instructions from the computer found his way back to Sick Bay, where he had to endure several hours of scans and tests as Crusher calibrated the visor.

"The visor will connect directly with your optic nerves," Crusher said. "Since they have been damaged by the removal of your eyes, the visor will use an artificial intelligence software filter to enhance the images it relays to your brain. This will overcome the lessened capacity of the nerves. It may look a little different from what you were used to."

As if that made the slightest bit of difference at this point. "Doctor, anything will be better than nothing at all."

"That's true," she said. "Well, I'm done with the calibration. Do you want to try it out?"

Obscurely, he suddenly wanted to be anywhere but there. "I... I don't know," he faltered. "What if...?"

She seemed to understand. "Come with me," she said decisively and led the way out of Sick Bay.

"Where are we going?" he asked as they walked.

"I want you to see something worth looking at," she replied. "Not far now."

They arrived wherever it was and she made him sit down. Ignoring his unease she removed his Ray-Bans and placed the visor on his face.

Suddenly light flooded his being, such brightness that he cried out. Not from pain, but from the beauty of it. All the colors of the spectrum combined in an incandescent swirl of light. He stared at the glory of the universe. Galaxies like grains of sand. Immensity consuming useless fears and dreams. What he saw before him was the infinite grandeur of Creation. Words could not describe it.

He wished that he could cry. Every fiber in him strained with the ache to sob real tears, to cleanse himself of the black thing in his soul. And yet, even that shadow faded to insignificance in the illumination from the view before him.  
Still, someone was crying close to him, but he could not tear his gaze away from the overwhelming sight.

"Señor Sands, don't die..."

He was lying on his back. There was a smell of straw and sweat and blood in the air. Cars and voices and mariachi music. But the glorious sight of the universe filled his eyes.

"Don't die..."

He knew the voice. "Don't cry, Chico. It will be alright," he said, reaching a hand inexplicably heavy to pat the boy on the head. "I can see!" He felt his face stretch in a smile. "I can see everything. The whole universe, Chico. And it's grand."

The light became so bright that he lost himself in it. Heavy chains of flesh fell from his spirit, and he soared away above the dusty Mexican town, free.

**The end.**

**© Leoni Venter 21 August 2005**

**When I go**

Come lonely hunter, chieftain and king  
I will fly like the falcon when I go  
Bear me, my brother, under your wing  
I will strike, fell, like lightning, when I go

I will bellow like the thunder drum, invoke the storm of war  
A twistin' pillar, spun of dust and blood, up from the prairie floor  
I will sweep the foe before me, like a gale out on the snow  
And the wind will long recount the story  
Reverence and glory, when I go

Spring spirit dancer, nimble and thin  
I will leap like coyote when I go  
Tireless entrancer, lend me your skin  
I will run like the gray wolf when I go

I will climb the rise at daybreak, I will kiss the sky at noon  
Raise my yearning voice at midnight to my mother in the moon  
I will make the lay of long defeat, and draw the chorus slow  
I'll send this message down the wire  
And hope that someone wise is listening when I go

And when the sun comes, trumpets, from his red house in the east  
He will find a standing stone, where long I chanted my release  
He will send his morning messenger to strike the hammer blow  
I will crumble down, uncountable In showers of crimson rubies when I go

Sigh, mournful sister, whisper and turn  
I will rattle like dry leaves when I go  
Stand in the mist where my fire used to burn  
I will camp on the night breeze when I go

And should you glimpse my wandering form out on the borderline  
Between death and resurrection and the council of the pines  
Do not worry for my comfort, do not sorrow for me so  
All your diamond tears will rise up  
And adorn the sky beside me when I go

- Dave Carter (As sung by Ronnie Cox - Sands belong to Robert Rodriguez and Troublemaker Studios. Star Trek belongs to the estate of Gene Roddenberry and Paramount. This story was written purely for personal entertainment and I make no profit from it. No copyright infringement is intended. Thanks to my readers (Haarsha, Charmaine) and their positive feedback!


End file.
